


Training for the ballet, Potter?

by opaleopioid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Dancer Draco Malfoy, Dirty Talk, Dom Draco Malfoy, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, Horny Harry, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Public Hand Jobs, Verbal Humiliation, but its kinda irrelevant, draco is a good teacher, drama student harry potter, harry learns ballet, in all ways possible, it's just a nice old pwp, remedial ballet, remedial potions but ballet, snape teaches ballet, training for the ballet Potter?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opaleopioid/pseuds/opaleopioid
Summary: Harry had Remedial Ballet with Draco, and accidentally (or not) got way too horny for his own good.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 159





	Training for the ballet, Potter?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I planned to write a long, plotty ballet AU for them, yet instead I opened my laptop and hatched this. Yay. Maybe it'll be a smutty prologue to the story, I still have no idea, but anyways I hope you enjoy:)

‘Training for the ballet, Potter?’

Harry’s head snapped up at the cold, taunting drawl. It was Draco Malfoy, who had been equally unpleasant to Harry the whole school year, if not more, as their young, sullen ballet master Severus Snape— they both loathed him as much as cats hated a nice, bubbly bath.

At the sight of the blond and his smooth (irritably so) ponytail, Harry didn’t even bother to complete his _relevé_ with an exhale and a careful _demi plié_ like he was told he should. He simply whirled around, clacking and almost toppling the ballet barre along his way, and glared at the sneering face with all the dignity he could summon within such short period.

‘Malfoy. What do you want?’ Harry inched his fingers onto the barre warily, it was still thrumming from the force Harry thrusted onto it a moment ago, the handrail a bit slippery from his sweat, and it had somehow managed to be warm and cool at the same time. The spot where Harry held on to reciprocated his own body heat, yet the centre of the metal remained cool, aloof, and rigid.

Harry wasn’t sure he would ever get used to this strange sensation.

Draco Malfoy crossed his arms before his chest, sniffing in disdain at Harry’s graceless bearing. ‘Well, Potter, consider me terribly affable today, that I deign to answer your worthless questions.’ A perfectly trimmed brow shot up peevishly on his pale, vulpine face as he hissed in a low voice, and his eyes were trained on Harry’s face with such intensity that Harry could not tell whether it was also intentional when Malfoy drew unnecessarily near.

Draco continued, ‘But when a _danseur_ shows up before his barre and mirrors, it normally means that they want to practise.’

‘But you aren’t,’ shrugged Harry, unimpressed by his snarky attitude. ‘You aren’t going to practise, Malfoy—you’re not on pointe, you haven’t applied Tiger Balm… you haven’t even brought a towel, for god’s sake.’

Draco narrowed his eyes, letting silence and unease fall between them like a thick, dingy theatre drape. ‘Quite perceptive of my routines, are you not?’ He smirked at last, his words draining cold blood from Harry’s face, where a second later was immediately perfused by a prickling, inflamed heat.

Still wearing the smug expression, Draco drawled on cattily, ‘Yet you’re quite right. I’m not here for my drills today. I am unfortunately, charged with the burdensome task of your Remedial Ballet, which Mr. Snape saw fit to arrange due to your pathetic performances in class, Potter.’

‘He might as well mark a big fat F on my report card. I couldn’t care less.’ Harry snapped, ‘Dance courses are elective in our programme, I’ll still graduate as a drama student in due time however poorly I do my pirouettes.’

‘That so?’

Their hands were almost touching now, as Draco leaned against the barre and rested his forearm on it placidly. He was regarding Harry with his unbearably knowing gaze. ‘You’ll be giving up your West End musicals dream for this shallow pride of yours. Good luck to you, then, golden boy.’

‘How d’you know—‘ Harry started, almost indignant that his future plans had somehow become a talk of the academy. Him and Malfoy weren’t even in the same college, for heaven’s sake.

But Draco merely smirked at Harry’s visible chagrin, before he suddenly snaked his hand around Harry’s waist.

There was a moment of disorientation when Harry’s brain had been shut down completely, his circuits overload, the screens of his mind rendered blank. _Oh._ He thought. The light fabric of his tank top seemed to vanish under Draco’s touch, and he could almost feel the concentric lines of Draco’s finger pulp, its distinct pattern branding onto Harry’s sweaty, flushed skin.

‘Second position, Potter, your torso is slouching to the right. Extend your spine,’ Draco drawled coolly, ‘and stop staring at me like a goldfish.’

_Bastard._

The next hour was positively torturous in Harry’s opinion. Draco had him go through the full barre routine— _Degagé, Rond de Jambe, Fondu, Grand Battements_ … and braving through such session with Draco paying full heed to every single movement, turned out to be both physically and mentally much more demanding than Snape’s lessons, which, Harry grimaced, were no picnic.

On the other hand, Draco had been far too gleeful from reasons Harry would rather not delve into, and when he commented airily in the end, ‘You shall be meeting me at the gym, 8 o’clock every morning from then on. Your core and thigh muscles have been poorly trained. We’ll work on that first before addressing to all other abominations of yours, Potter,’ Harry was as skittish and tired as a sleep-deprived, bolting rabbit, and he made no attempt to argue with Draco, who, to Harry’s horror, threw off his T-shirt carelessly when he was demonstrating the correct way to _Fondu_ , and had nearly blinded Harry’s eyes with his black unitard.

He still hadn’t put his shirt back on, and the wicked piece of tights pasted itself firmly on Draco’s ankles, legs, thighs… like another sleek outer layer of his skin… the seal-like fabric continued wrapping upwards, its edge skirted slyly against the lowest two blocks of Draco’s firm rectus abdominis… and sinfully, the whole thing just happened to be strapped to his body by _suspenders_ , suspenders that were merely two thin, coy stripes, suspenders that allowed his pink, pert nipples to jut out from time to time…

Harry was hard, painfully hard, and when the realisation struck him, he scurried backwards, face burning as he whipped his towel futilely in front of his crotch.

There was absolutely no fucking way his biker shorts could hide his erection from Malfoy’s eagle-sharp eyes, thought Harry miserably, _I’m so doomed._

‘Kneel, now, Potter.’ Then came Draco’s cold sneer.

Harry had no way to make sure whether he’d heard it wrong, or if that was a wild hallucination of his lust-addled brain, or if, by some cosmic witchery, Draco did know what he wanted all along.

What if he knelt and it turned out to be some sort of a foul prank? Those evil bats in Slytherin College would never let this pass. What if he faked deaf, chose not to react and lost this divine opportunity to… wait, to what, exactly? Harry wanted to punch himself. He was going mad, like those fatigue men with weary, tortured brows, their brains awfully messed up by the succubus’ charm.

Rolling his eyes, Draco shoved a yoga mat in front of Harry and pressed him down to his knees—buttocks on heels, hands clutching towel, and towel over _that_ traitorous organ.

‘Half-wit.’ Draco muttered, his strong, spidery fingers still squeezing Harry’s shoulders, his scent wafting about in the air as he pressed his body close to Harry’s backside. ‘Try to relax your neck and shoulder girdles. You’re tensing up too much.’

Harry exhaled to huff out a nervous vesicle that had been swelling and fizzing around in his chest, feeling extremely relived, and, if he was being honest, extremely disappointed as well.

He closed his eyes and felt the way Draco massaged his shoulders, the nocturnal, mysterious, leafy, rosy scent enveloping him gently and stroking his senses, almost drawing out a content purr from Harry when Draco smoothed his hands over those sore deltoids.

Or maybe Harry did purr out loud, because Draco’s liquefying touch stopped where it was, and Harry peeked out fuzzy-minded from his drooping eyelids, only to capture the exasperation on Draco’s face.

‘Tilt your head to the right.’ Draco repeated, a much annoyed lilt bordering his tone. ‘You’ll want to feel your neck muscles extended on the left side as I press your shoulders down.’

He added, huffing, ‘Don’t get too dreamy, loafing on the mat like an obese panda. This is still part of your training.’

‘This how you get that neck?’ asked Harry, slurring a bit.

Like all ballet dancers, Draco did have a nice, swan-like neck.

‘Arms to the first position, Potter, and do be sure your gaze and head position are coordinating,’ Draco commanded icily, ignoring his not-so-subtle coveting, ‘as I said, this is essential and among the basics.’

Harry straightened himself and focused on improving the details of his movements. When he completed the set of moves, he glanced up, noticing that Draco’s hands had lifted, and where his palm clamped over a moment ago was left cold and damp in the open air, yet among Harry’s flesh flowed a certain heat, its temperature high and strange.

Harry’s eyes flitted upwards and he found Draco looming over him, face partly obscured in the shadows, those porcelain, fine fingers balled up forcefully at his flanks, as if he was restraining them from thrashing out, the blue veins puckering fiercely on the dorsal surface. Puzzled, Harry followed Draco’s gaze, then gasped.

His eyes were fixed upon the protruding tent at Harry’s front—the damn towel! It must have fallen off to the floor at one point.

‘Well, well.’ After what felt like an agonising century, Draco finally spoke, his voice low and tight, pupils blown black. ‘Now aren’t you a wild one.’

‘Fuck—I didn’t,’ Shakily, Harry babbled, his chest heaving up and down furiously, the trickling perspiration that gathered upon his clavicles being sent under the cold white light as he inhaled, all glistening beads and shimmering streams. His face was an overheated flush. ‘I mean, I’m so sorry—’

‘You should be,’ said Draco loftily, but a savage smirk played on his lips, and he whispered, leaning closer down to Harry’s face, ‘for such blatant display of mischief.’

Overwhelmed, Harry clambered backwards with both frantic hands, looking around hysterically for a quickest route to escape.

His dire attempt to vanish on the spot shattered under Draco’s foot, neatly clothed in a satin ballet slipper, and had then landed itself regally on Harry’s groin.

‘ _Excuse me_ ,’ Draco laughed, cold voice cracking open his own haughty façade and revealing the churning, dark water of sadism below. He ground the arch of his foot upon Harry’s hardened dick, merciless yet erotic as hell. ‘but it’d be beneath me if I so easily pardoned this naughty thing here, unabashed, Potter, and raising such _solid_ _offence_ to me, wouldn’t it.’

Harry trembled despite himself, throwing back his head as the electrifying sensation erupted from his lower belly. ‘Malfoy,’ he groaned incoherently, amidst the sea of turbulent lust that tossed him from one peak to another. ‘S-stop it, you,’ but Draco merely changed his angle and started circling the spot where Harry’s scrotum met the base of penis, his relentless toes dragging over Harry’s sensitive mess of tightened balls and tangled pubic hair and the humid, warm texture of his sports brief…

Harry promptly forgot what he was going to protest about. He arched up and rocked his hips towards Draco’s touch like a rutting tomcat.

Draco was smirking all over his pale, delicate features, clearly pleased with the fact that he had been the one disciplining _famous Harry Potter,_ golden boy of the Gryffindor College.

He hovered over down to stroke Harry’s neck lazily, and teased, ‘Enjoying yourself rather nicely, aren’t you? Is this why you come to our ballet classes, Potter? To squirrel away more of these… _graphic_ wanking materials for your randy daydreams .’

Harry was instantly aware that he found all of this ridiculously hot, what with Draco’s clear, cut-glass accent and those tantalising words that hardened his dick even further. ‘Yes,’ he groaned, all glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, ‘to your first question, I mean.’ His fingers found their way stealthily under Draco’s suspenders, eliciting a surprised moan when he rubbed his thumb over those coral pink, bud-like nipples. Harry panted, green eyes lustre and intense as he retorted smugly, ‘And you, Malfoy? Do you wank to my arse and my arms at night? Now that I’ve come to think of it, _Draco,_ your hands can’t seem to keep off me when we’re in class, can they? All those brushing, those slapping… they can’t all be _accidents_.’

Draco moaned again, pushing his hips down to meet Harry’s erection, his feeble tights leaving almost nothing in between to buffer their sudden thrill. The friction between them was almost unbearable. They were both making embarrassing noises into each other’s face. No one remembered who swooped forward first, but the next moment, a pair of lips were crashing against the other pair—hot, wet, and messy, every inch of the surface of their body seemed to be attached together, Draco’s thigh straddling Harry’s, Harry’s palm rubbing fervently on the exposed skin at Draco’s upper abdomen. They were two simple, lifeless systems oscillating back and forth against each other, always returning to the centre, to their kiss, and _this_ , this was supposed to go on forever, undamped, this was too good to end, too good to have happened, even.

‘None of them were,’ Draco growled into Harry’s mouth, his fingers finally sliding into Harry’s brief, then, nimble and accurate, he released Harry’s cock from its restrain, feeling it swell even more in his grip, ‘can’t believe it took you _months_ to realise, that I’ve wanted to fuck you since day zero.’

His hands moved up and down along Harry’s shaft, sending currents of pleasure to Harry’s brain, melting away all his doubts, and as if Draco’s touch was a torrid, arresting force of gravity, each and every cell within Harry’s body clamoured and swayed to and fro against it, his nerve endings marinated in a puddle of psychedelic rapture, which, again, ebbed and flowed under Draco’s firm thrusts.

Harry was helpless, completely dominated by his blinding libido, and he let out husky, desperate sobs from time to time, being reduced to a sweet, needy creature, always begging brokenly for more, ‘uh, f-fuck, Malfoy,’ his eyes rolled upwards in sheer ecstasy, ‘gonna come,’ Harry grunted.

‘Yeah?’ taunted Draco, his grip punishing, ‘how about we start working on your stamina tomorrow? I’ll plug your arsehole with a vibrator and make you wear a cock ring while you do crunches. You won’t be able to come, Potter, until I say otherwise. And I’ll fuck you when you’re all soft and sweaty after our workout. Your abs and thigh muscles will be so sore and shaky, they _convulse_ every time I pound deep into you, Harry, you’ll be a quivering mess. From then on I’ll have you wear my dance belt to the Slytherin college, too, it’s like a thong, but tighter, so I can slap your arse cheeks or punish your greedy little hole whenever you’re misbehaving again—

White, viscous spurts of spunk shot out from Harry’s cock as he shouted hoarsely, ‘Draco!’ one last time. It splashed onto his own chest and in between Draco’s fingers, from which Draco licked away with languid tongue, smirking again.

‘I take that as a “yes”, Potter.’ He straightened his suspenders slowly, staring down to Harry. ‘See you tomorrow.’

**Author's Note:**

> (I adopted this cliche as its title cos im just lazy.)


End file.
